


The Fire Taught Your Blood Its Lessons

by Ralkana



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Bondage, Challenge Response, First Meetings, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, Rape Roleplay, Remix, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-24 17:43:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20710007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/pseuds/Ralkana
Summary: This wasnothow Clint had expected to spend the evening getting to know his new handler.A remix of cakeisnotpie'sBurn and Make Me New.





	The Fire Taught Your Blood Its Lessons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cakeisnotpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Burn and Make Me New](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3519236) by [cakeisnotpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie). 

> I was _thrilled_ to get cakeisnotpie as my author to remix for this challenge. Their work is some of my favorite! Rich and layered and so rereadable! But it was also a little intimidating, because I knew I couldn't do justice to one of their long glorious epics. Then I remembered Burn and Make Me New, definitely a favorite, and a bookmark I've returned to many times. Hot, and delicious, and perfect for this challenge. I hope you all enjoy it.
> 
> Please let me know if you feel there's a tag I should add.

Clint barely stopped himself from punching his locker. He couldn't afford broken fingers, not when he was probably already headed for disciplinary leave. He clenched his fists and tapped them against the locker door, swearing quietly. 

The Cookeville mission had gone to shit. They'd failed to meet their objective, nearly blown their cover, and _all_ of them had almost ended up dead. The only reason Perez and Kowalski had made it back with only minor wounds was that Clint had very loudly and angrily gone against Chou's direct orders, and Chou had spent the entire flight back screaming at Clint about insubordination and disciplinary panels.

"Fuck him," Clint muttered. He wasn't about to sit there and let his teammates face a messy death due to bad planning, just because some idiot in a van ordered him to.

He was jittery, brimming with frustration and defiance, and an hour on the range and a long shower had done nothing to relax him, only winding him up tighter. He had no idea what to do to bring himself down.

Clint rested his palms flat on the locker door and laid his forehead against the cool metal. Maybe joining SHIELD had been a mistake.

Granted, it had been SHIELD or a jail cell, but maybe Clint should have cut and run, taken his chances. Might be time to take his chances now. This clearly wasn't working out, and at this rate, Clint would end up dead far sooner than he would have if he'd stayed out on his own.

The locker room door banged open, and Director Fury walked in. "Barton, with me."

He turned and walked back out, clearly expecting Clint to follow him. Clint sighed and followed, prepared to find himself in front of one of the disciplinary panels Chou had mentioned. 

"Relax, Barton. This isn't dead man walking."

"Sir," Clint said, not relaxing in the slightest.

Fury smirked, silently leading the way to his office and motioning for Clint to go first through the door. He sat, not behind his desk, but on one of the long, low couches by the wall of shielded windows. Clint sat, stiffly, on the other.

"It seems, Barton, that you and Chou are not the match made in heaven we all hoped that you would be."

"No, sir." Clint did his best to hide a grimace at the understatement. Chou was a goddamn idiot.

Fury sat back, resting his arms along the top of the couch. "Montoya, Davis, Chou…" He began, naming off all of the handlers Clint had had since he'd joined SHIELD. "They're good agents, decent handlers, but they've got no vision. They don't see potential. They only see you as a junior agent that needs training up and settling down. You're already a specialist, Barton, we've just got to check some of the boxes to get you there."

"All due respect," Clint said wryly, "I think I'm gonna end up dead before I check those boxes, sir."

"I have a handler in mind for you who'll make sure that won't happen. Name's Phil Coulson. Now, Coulson, _he_ sees potential."

Clint raised an eyebrow. Even he, in his short time at SHIELD, knew who Agent Coulson was. Rumors followed Coulson down the hallways like the ripples in a battleship's wake. Self-extraction with a dislocated shoulder and a broken leg. Neutralized five enemy combatants with office supplies. Encountered something in the field his first time out so hush-hush that the entire op was instantly classified at the highest level. Fury's right hand man and Maria Hill's drinking buddy.

"I didn't know Agent Coulson handled junior agents, sir."

Fury's shoulders shifted slightly. On anyone else, it would've been a shrug. "He hasn't lately, it's true. He spends his time cleaning up messes far bigger than even you could make."

Clint frowned. He knew arguing with Director Fury was never going to go well for him, but if babysitting Clint was going to take Coulson away from more important duties, he couldn't see how they were going to get off to a good start.

Fury leaned forward, catching Clint's gaze. "Coulson is spending too much time behind a desk, because he's good at it, but he wants to be in the field. He _needs_ to be in the field. He needs a challenge, something to keep him sharp. I think you're that challenge."

Clint couldn't deny that working with an agent of Coulson's standing sounded incredible, but it was a high-risk, high-reward situation. If he fucked this up...

"Look, Barton, I didn't bring you into SHIELD to send you on milk runs with baby agents and mediocre handlers. I brought you in because I think you could be one of our best, and I think Coulson can help you get there. You need Coulson, and I think he needs you. He needs that challenge, and... he needs a little loosening up."

Stunned by Fury's frank words, Clint just nodded. It was one thing to think of himself as better than the jackasses he'd been working with, and a whole hell of a lot different to hear the director confirm it.

"I know it's getting late, but I'm going to send you to meet Coulson. Here, take this. I'll let him know you're coming."

"Now?" Clint asked, taking the card Fury handed him. It was plain white, the only thing on it a handwritten address.

"Now. You're still pissed off about Cookeville, and I don't blame you, that was a shitshow and a half. Go over there, get to know Coulson. Blow off some steam, take the weekend, come back on Monday."

Fury stood, so Clint stood too, clearly having been dismissed. "Yes, sir," he said, not sure what else he _could_ say.

Fury walked him to the door and out. He pointed at the card he'd given Clint. "Memorize that and destroy it. That information is need to know. And get going, Barton. He'll be expecting you."

His office door clicked shut, and Clint stared at it, blowing out his breath.

"Right," he muttered, tapping the card on his palm. "Guess I'll get going."

*** * * * ***

Clint got off the subway a couple of stops early and jogged the rest of the way. He was still jittery with adrenaline from the failed mission, and he wanted to burn as much of it off as he could before he met Coulson.

Coulson. His new handler. Fuck.

Fury'd made it clear he trusted this guy, that he thought the man and Clint would make a good team. If Clint fucked this up, what would happen?

He'd mused earlier about the possibility of cutting and running, but after he'd talked to Fury, after Fury had _discussed_ the situation with him like an adult, instead of treating him like a disobedient child the way the rest of SHIELD did, he was really hoping to avoid that. He'd joined SHIELD for a reason, even if it was hard to remember that when it was buried under the rest of the bullshit.

Maybe Agent Coulson would help him remember that. Remember who he was, and what he wanted to be, what he _could_ be.

He glanced up to see that he was in front of the address Fury had given him. Instantly more nervous than he'd been since he joined SHIELD, Clint knocked lightly on the door.

It was opened quickly, as if the man behind it had been waiting for Clint. Blue eyes swept over Clint, sharply assessing, and Clint took the chance to do the same. Coulson was barefoot, in thin sleep pants, and a thin, worn T-shirt. It clung to his pecs and molded to taut biceps, baring gorgeous forearms, and Clint's eyes were helplessly drawn to the tantalizing bulge in the loose material below his waist. Clint yanked his gaze up to the man's face, suddenly aware he was staring.

Coulson was around the same height as Clint, a little older, soft brown hair slightly rumpled, those gorgeous blue eyes dark. His mouth was set, chin jutting... not exactly grimly. In determination, maybe.

Before Clint's belly could give more than a single swoop of nerves, Coulson spoke.

"Come on in," he said as he moved to allow Clint inside. "I've got the contract on the table. We should go over the limits before we begin."

He turned to walk further into the room. Confused, Clint shut the door behind himself and followed.

Contract? Clint's SHIELD contract maybe? Did Coulson want to go over it before he agreed to take Clint on? And what did he mean by limits?

"Standard D/s rules apply," Coulson continued, and Clint nearly tripped over his own feet. Coulson didn't seem to notice, his eyes on the sheet of paper he picked up from the dining table. "My safe word is Minneapolis, plus red, yellow, and green -- and the scene is open to interpretation but the force part is integral."

_Holy shit_, Clint thought, heart hammering as he absently took the sheet Coulson handed him. He opened his mouth to say something -- anything -- but Coulson kept going, seemingly determined to get to the end of what was clearly a prepared speech.

"No marking, minimal bruising, and I have my own handcuffs as well as hypoallergenic lube and condoms. Condom use is non-negotiable."

The authoritative snap in the last few words was undeniable, allowing for absolutely no argument.

"Your own handcuffs? Hyperallergenic?" Clint repeated, feeling overwhelmed, but quickly catching up. He might be stunned, but he wasn't stupid, and he wasn't inexperienced. This was a scene. Coulson was setting up a scene. A scene in which he was clearly spelling out all the ways in which he needed to be dommed.

"Specially designed for the swivel hook in the wall at the head of the bed. With an emergency release."

Coulson had hardware. Built-in hardware. This was definitely not his first scene.

_Blow off some steam_, Fury had said. The words echoed in Clint's head. _He needs a little loosening up._

This was _not_ how Clint had expected to spend the evening getting to know his new handler.

But now that it had become an option, he couldn't deny that he wanted it. _Needed_ it. It had been a long time -- _years_ \-- since he had done anything like this, but Coulson was hot, built, clearly aware of precisely what he wanted, and unafraid to demand it. He was exactly Clint's type, and spending the night -- the weekend, Fury had said! -- domming the hell out of him suddenly seemed way more inviting than spending useless hours at the range, trying to burn off the restless energy crackling under his skin.

Clint needed this, Coulson needed this, and Fury had seen it, had put them in each other's paths and said they'd be good together. _Great_ together.

"Okay, that makes sense," he said, almost to himself. He played mindlessly with the form Coulson had handed him, starting to think. To plan.

Coulson crossed his arms, and the motion drew Clint's attention back to him, gaze lingering on the way it made Coulson's biceps flex and bulge.

"As you can see, in terms of shaming, the topics are limited to the act itself, nothing outside the bedroom. No hitting, but struggling is part of the submission. Threats are fine as is immobility and delayed gratification."

The tense way Coulson bit out the words might have concerned Clint, but… Coulson was legendary at SHIELD. A badass, unstoppable, Fury's one good eye. Clint imagined that for someone like him, making himself vulnerable in this way was probably almost unbearable.

"I think I've got this," he said. He pulled out a chair and sat down at the table, looking up at Coulson. "You need to lose control, let someone else take over."

The idea of being that person, the person Coulson trusted himself to, burned fiercely in Clint's chest. His cock stirred in his jeans.

"Yes," Coulson said, expression softening just a bit. Relief, Clint thought. "That's it exactly. An illusion of no choice."

"Then the burglar scenario won't work," Clint mused, gaze lingering on the muscles of Coulson's arms, his chest. He tapped his fingers on the table, thinking. "You'd take an intruder down in a heartbeat. No, a world-class assassin would be better."

He smirked, half-remembered fantasies swirling in his head, daydreams he'd imagined over the years to get himself off. Men under him, on their knees for him, eyes wide, heads bowed.

None of them held a candle to the thought of Coulson submitting to his wishes.

Coulson frowned, clearly thinking. "Yes," he said with a thoughtful nod. "That's acceptable."

"And what about weapons?" Clint asked.

"I prefer guns, no bullets of course," Coulson replied. "But I'm not adverse to knives."

Clint pursed his lips, thinking. A gun was better. Knives in a situation like this could get… unexpectedly messy. And not in a fun way.

He smoothed out the form under his hands, flattening it where he'd accidentally wrinkled it. There, in stark black-and-white, was everything Coulson had mentioned, neatly bullet-pointed, the frank language only making the demands hotter. Words jumped out at him, images forming, taking shape, and he shifted in the chair as he read, resisting the urge to adjust himself.

The last paragraph spelled out in no uncertain terms that both the undersigned parties consented to take part in this, a one-time scene, and both agreed to abide by all the terms set herein.

One signature line was already signed. Clint stared at the bold lines of Coulson's signature, and settled himself. Glancing up, he caught Coulson's gaze, held it. "And this is what you want?"

The signature was clear, and Coulson had stated his needs, but Clint needed the words. The confirmation.

Coulson took a moment to answer, clearly gathering himself, just as Clint had.

"Yes."

"Okay." Clint nodded, taking a deep breath as he picked up the pen lying on the table. It felt heavy, good and solid, no cheap, plastic, bargain Bic. It felt _right_, and he signed his name on the line next to Coulson's. "Okay. We can do this. You get in bed, I need a minute or two. I assume you want it to be unexpected. Well, as much as it can be."

"That's not really possible, but, ideally, yes."

They held each other's gaze for a moment longer, and then Coulson turned before it became awkward, and headed toward the bedroom, presumably.

"Oh, are you okay with improvisation?" Clint asked after him. Just because Coulson had it all planned out didn't mean Clint intended to stick exactly to the script. The whole scene was about Coulson letting go of control, after all. "With the safety system in place, of course."

"As long as we're within the boundaries," Coulson said with a nod. "Let's get this over with."

_That doesn't sound very enthusiastic_, Clint thought, but he figured Coulson thought of this as… more than scratching an itch. _Like eating your vegetables_, he mused. Something Coulson needed, but maybe didn't exactly want to want.

He watched Coulson walk down the darkened hallway, sleep pants clinging to the curve of his ass.

Coulson might not want to want it, but that didn't mean Clint wasn't going to enjoy the hell out of giving it to him.

He sat at the table for a moment, gathering his thoughts and giving Coulson a chance to get settled.

Heat curled in his belly, and he let it grow, remembering the way Coulson's biceps had flexed when he'd crossed his arms. The fine hair on his chest, peeking out of the collar of his T-shirt, the strong thighs he'd seen under those thin pants.

Clint was going to enjoy every moment of having all that coiled strength under him, in his hands, and it was long past time to get started.

He moved silently across the living room to lock the front door before stopping back at the dining table. He glanced down at the form, mentally working through Coulson's limits as he divested himself of his wallet and keys and half of his backup weapons.

Clearing his gun, he set the bullets on the table, checking it three times before he was satisfied it was empty. He double checked that the safety was on -- he only intended to use it briefly as a prop anyway. He had much better things to hold on to than his service weapon.

With another deep breath, he started down the hallway.

He brought to mind the powerless frustration he'd felt earlier that day as the op had imploded, cascading into failure as he'd watched. He intended to use every ounce of that frustration, to focus it and channel it. To use it to take control.

The bedroom door was half open, the room dark. The only light came from the living room and the scattered light of the city outside the blind-covered window, but it was more than enough for Clint to see Coulson on the bed, fist curled around his cock and stroking slowly.

Clint's fingers tightened around the butt of his gun as he watched. Coulson's breath hitched, hips shifting minutely, bottom lip caught between his teeth. He gasped, eyes fluttering closed and then open again, and Clint slipped through the shadows, coming to a stop next to the bed.

Clint pressed the barrel of his gun into Coulson's temple, and Coulson froze, his breath catching. 

"Well now this is a fine sight," Clint said, letting a hint of derision curl his voice. "Like you were expecting me, getting ready."

Coulson didn't move, hand still cupped around his cock. He glanced sidelong at Clint, eyes wide, gleaming in the low light, and if Clint wasn't mistaken, Coulson's surprise was genuine.

Pride bloomed in Clint at the thought that he'd taken an agent of Coulson's caliber unaware, even if Coulson was… distracted.

"Don't stop on my account," he said with a smirk, gun still pressed to Coulson's skin. "I'm a fair man; might as well get off one last time."

He stepped back, out of the range of a sudden lunge, gun still trained on Coulson, and looked his fill.

Coulson was shirtless now, his muscled chest broad, taut abs hitching as he drew in a shaky breath. A light dusting of chest hair arrowed down into a darker nest of curls, mostly hidden by Coulson's hand as he loosely held -- _well_.

Clint's gun never wavered, but he bit back a groan at the sight of Coulson's cock. Long and thick, and glistening at the tip. It jerked under Clint's gaze, and as Clint watched, Coulson's fingers tightened around the shaft, stroking slowly at first, and then faster.

Coulson slid his thumb over the tip of his cock, spreading precome, teasing at the sensitive skin just under the head. He caught that full bottom lip in his teeth again as he choked back a whine.

Clint wanted to catch that lip in _his_ teeth, feel the soft give of it, hear the sounds it would pull out of Coulson, the way he'd tremble under Clint.

"Don't," he ordered as Coulson bit off another sound. "I want to hear you."

Coulson moaned softly, fist pumping faster, and his eyes never left the gun in Clint's hand.

"You like this, don't you?" Clint asked. "Being watched. Being the cock slut you are."

Coulson's breath caught at the taunt, his strokes stuttering and then speeding up, body rocking with each one.

"Or maybe it's the gun." Clint added, as Coulson's eyes stayed fixed on the weapon. "Turns you on, doesn't it?"

"Oh!" Coulson let out a shaky breath and braced his feet against the bed, hips lifting and body arching as he thrust into his fist.

Coulson was gorgeous, so responsive, but he was quickly losing himself in his pleasure, and they hadn't even really started yet.

"We'll have none of that," he growled, snatching up the pair of cuffs that lay on the bedside table. Coulson cried out as Clint grabbed his wrist and yanked his hand off his cock, moving fast to cuff both wrists and then hook the cuffs into the wall above the bed.

Stepping to the foot of the bed, he grabbed Coulson's ankles and pulled, stretching him out and yanking off his sleep pants in one quick move, leaving him naked and taut on the bed, arms secured to the wall above his head. Not tight enough to be painful, just enough to keep him from moving.

"Ah, now that's more like it." Clint nodded with satisfaction at the sight, Coulson bare and trembling, eyes wide, chest heaving. His cock was hard and flushed, heavy against his lower belly.

Clint set the gun on the bedside table and stripped his shirt over his head as he toed off his boots. He made quick work of his belt and the fly of his jeans, shoving them and his shorts down together and stepping out of them. He looked up to catch Coulson's gaze on his cock, watching his body go taut, eyes hungry at the sight of it.

Clint swept his eyes over Coulson one more time, trying to figure out where to start. There was so much he wanted to do. He watched Coulson's lips part, tongue slipping out to wet them, and his cock jerked at the thought of Coulson's hot mouth wrapped around him.

He strode to the head of the bed and climbed up, swinging a leg over Coulson's arms. He settled lightly with the backs of his thighs on Coulson's outstretched arms, straddling his elbows, his knees pushing Coulson's biceps into the sides of his head. It was tight and a little awkward as he reached down and took Coulson's face in his hands. His cock brushed Coulson's face, and Coulson flinched and began struggling under Clint. He couldn't move much, his body flat under Clint and his taut arms pressed against his ears. He thrashed harder, his breath bursting free in panicked gasps, hot gusts of air against Clint's cock and balls.

"Hey, you okay?" Clint asked, sitting back to give Coulson some room and a chance to breathe. Coulson sucked in a deep breath, and Clint added, "Red, yellow, or green? If you need to stop…"

"No, I'm green." Coulson shook his head quickly, panting. Clint could see his pulse hammering in his throat. "It's good. Too good. Don't stop."

"Less smothering?" He peered down in the dark room, trying to read Coulson's eyes. They were wide and dark, and as he watched, something flickered through them, some emotion Clint couldn't identify.

"I like it," Coulson said softly. "And I'm ready for more."

Clint grinned at that. "Good, because we're going to put that mouth to good use."

He moved in close, crowding Coulson again as he took Coulson's cheeks in his hands. His grip was firm but not hard enough to bruise, thumbs pressing at the hinge of Coulson's jaw until Coulson finally let him in. Clint slowly pushed his cock into Coulson's mouth, biting back a groan at the tentative flick of Coulson's tongue against the sensitive head. With a muttered curse, he arched his back, pushing deeper, until he felt the back of Coulson's throat. Coulson moaned around his cock, the vibrations sparking through him, and he reached back to take a firm grip on Coulson's writhing hips, driving his cock even deeper. 

It felt _so good_ \-- hot and wet and tight, and the desperate sounds Coulson was making arrowed straight through him. It had been so long since Clint had had this kind of freedom to play this way, a partner willing to just take it, take whatever Clint chose to give. Clint swore and lost the edge of his control, wildly fucking Coulson's mouth, and Coulson choked and gasped, cuffs rattling and body rolling under Clint, head jerking as he tried to free himself.

Then, a switch seemed to flip, and Coulson suddenly calmed. He stopped struggling, his body stilling as he relaxed his throat and pressed his face into Clint's cock, letting Clint fuck his throat even deeper. Clint groaned, his thrusts speeding up, fingers tightening on Coulson's hips.

"Look at you," he grunted. "How much you like it, my cock in your mouth. You love it. You want every inch of me."

He pushed deep, feeling Coulson's throat work around the head of his cock. "Such a good boy."

Those words seemed to affect Coulson more than anything else Clint had said, his breath punching out of him in a gasping sob around Clint's cock. He pulled at the cuffs and planted his feet on the bed, arching his hips and straining against Clint's hold. Clint looked down into Coulson's eyes, wide and dark, lashes spiky with tears from the way Clint was pounding into his throat, and Clint's belly tightened, lust spiking.

"Oh, oh fuck," Clint gasped. He forced himself to pull away before he couldn't stop, his abs clenching as his cock slid out of Coulson's hot mouth and the room's cool air hit his sensitive flesh. He sat on the edge of the bed and closed his eyes, breathing deeply and willing away the orgasm that was _right there_.

"Color?" Coulson asked, and Clint clenched his fists, because Coulson's voice was _wrecked_, raspy and fucked out, and that was _not_ helping Clint regain control.

"Green," he said as he breathed out. "Just need... a second..."

He looked over at Coulson, smiling what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Almost ended things way too early there. So damn intense."

"I know," Coulson said, still breathing hard. "Take your time."

Clint chuckled. "Yeah, I don't think parts of you agree with that."

Coulson's body was taut, his flushed cock an angry red, hard and leaking. His chest rose and fell as he gasped for breath, legs splayed wide as he recovered. He was gorgeous, and he'd responded to Clint so beautifully, and Clint burned with the need to touch him again.

"It can wait," Coulson said evenly, and that calm tone sparked Clint's lust, made him want to do whatever he needed to have Coulson writhing and begging under him once more.

"Isn't that what you're trying to give up?" he asked, rising to give himself better leverage. "Controlling your desires?"

He pushed Coulson's knees flat, straightening his legs, then quickly flipped him onto his stomach. The hook in the wall swiveled to keep Coulson from getting his arms twisted and tangled, and Clint grinned in satisfaction as he shifted Coulson so that his knees were under him with his legs spread wide, that gorgeous ass in the air, and his face pressed into the bed. His hard cock hung heavy between his thighs.

Coulson gasped into the pillow, struggling to get his elbows under him, and Clint rested one hand on the curve of his ass, the other on the back of Coulson's neck, holding him where he wanted him.

Coulson strained against the hand on his neck, and Clint pressed harder, a silent warning. He knew exactly where to press to incapacitate or injure, and his hold would prove that to anyone else who knew. Coulson certainly knew, and Clint didn't have to say a word.

"Oh, god," Coulson groaned, cock twitching. His back arched as he clearly tried to get some friction -- any friction -- to rut against, and the move raised his ass in the air under Clint's hand.

Keeping his hand firmly on Coulson's neck, Clint brushed the other hand over Coulson's firm ass, fingers gliding between his cheeks to press gently against his hole. It clenched under his exploring fingers, tight muscle growing even tighter as Coulson murmured, "Please."

He was quivering under Clint's hands, body trembling with need, and Clint pressed deeper, wanting more. Wanting all of him.

"Please what?" he demanded, reaching for the bottle of lube that sat ready on the bedside table. He flipped it open, drizzling a line down Coulson's ass and over his hole as he moaned.

"Please," he begged breathlessly. "Hold me down. Fuck me hard. Make me come. Turn me loose."

Clint groaned, one slick hand clamping hard on the base of his cock. Hearing Coulson's pleas nearly undid him.

He gripped Coulson's ass in his hands, thumbs pressing in, sliding deeper than Clint expected. Coulson was hot and slick and ready, and Clint was struck by a mental image of Coulson, naked on his bed, cock hard and straining, head thrown back and one hand moving between his legs as he opened himself up, preparing himself for Clint's cock.

"God, look at you," he said as he sank two fingers deep into Coulson, pushing them wide to open him up even more. "So ready and eager, all slick and stretched out for me. Such a greedy little hole you've got."

Coulson groaned, pushing back on to Clint's fingers as much as he could.

"I bet I could slide on in without any prep at all, couldn't I? You'd just part and take me the whole way until I bottomed out in your tight little ass."

"Yes, yes, oh god, do it," Coulson babbled, clenching tight around Clint's fingers. His voice broke as he babbled and begged. "Please."

"Fuck!" Clint slid his fingers free of Coulson's ass, hand gripping the base of his cock again when Coulson made a small, bereft noise. He rolled on a condom and lubed up his cock, hissing at the touch of his fingers on the oversensitive flesh. 

He took a deep breath as he guided his cock to Coulson's ass, stretched now and shiny with lube.

They both groaned as the head of Clint's cock slipped in, and Clint gripped Coulson's hips with his hands, thumbs pressing hard enough to dimple the firm flesh beneath them. He pressed forward slowly and steadily, without stopping at all to let Coulson adjust, and Coulson groaned again and arched his back to let Clint in as deep as possible.

"Good," Coulson gasped as Clint pulled back and then shoved in again. "So good. Yes. Give it to me."

His words slurred into babbled curses as Clint thrust steadily, slow and even, trying to make it last as long as possible. Coulson was so hot and tight around his cock, clenching even tighter each time Clint bottomed out, his hips slapping hard against Coulson's ass.

"So tight," he groaned. "So hot, holy hell. Oh god. You're perfect," he grunted, doing a little babbling of his own.

"God, yeah, please, fuck me hard, make me take it, just use me, please!" Coulson gasped, his babbling sliding into wordless cries punched out of him with every thrust. He moved just a little under Clint's grasp, his knees sliding wider, body bowing, and Clint swore, lengthening his thrusts as he stretched out over Coulson's back. He gripped the back of Coulson's neck, planting his other hand in the small of Coulson's back, and Coulson's cries got sharper as Clint's strokes hit his prostate with every thrust.

Coulson's body was lax under Clint's, hands curled around the chain that joined his cuffs, his whole body rocking with each hard thrust. His head lay on the pillow, face turned to the side, mouth slack as he moaned. His eyes were closed in his bliss, content to simply be used for Clint's pleasure.

"Fucking _take it_. Look at you, goddamn, just taking my fucking cock," Clint grunted, words spilling out of him with every thrust. "Fuck, so hot, your ass is perfect, you're _perfect_, I can't -- "

Clint's thrusts sped up as heat spiraled in his belly, driving him toward his climax, and Coulson gasped and wailed, a high, wordless sound, body jerking and ass clenching almost painfully tight around Clint's cock as Coulson came, his cock completely untouched.

"Fuck," Clint gasped in disbelief. It was the hottest thing he'd ever seen, and it pushed him right to the edge. His hands on Coulson's unresisting hips yanked him back onto Clint's cock with every ruthless, uneven thrust.

"Oh, god, oh -- oh shit!" He came hard, his eyes rolling back in his head as he shoved jerkily into Coulson a few more times, swearing as the aftershocks of Coulson's orgasm milked the last few drops of come from his cock.

His knees gave out and he collapsed, gasping for air as he lay heavily on top of Coulson, both of them quiet as they caught their breath. Coulson's neck was red where Clint's fingers had gripped it, and Clint stretched up to kiss the marks, half-proud and half-apologetic.

He lifted the cuffs off the hook in the wall and curled around Coulson, cuddling close and stroking Coulson's bound hands with his thumbs.

"Good god in heaven, that was fucking amazing," he whispered, and Coulson hummed in reply, lips quirking in a slow, lazy smile.

He levered himself up off of Coulson, and Coulson shivered and made an unhappy sound. Clint chuckled and ran his fingers through Coulson's damp, sweaty hair, teasing it back off his forehead. "Shh," he soothed. "I'll be right back. Stay here."

He wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around Coulson and sleep for a week, but his work wasn't done. He staggered to the bathroom on weak legs and quickly cleaned up before running another washcloth under warm water.

Coulson was still curled on the bed where Clint had left him, cuffed hands tucked into his chest. Clint unlocked the cuffs and set them aside, gently running his fingers over Coulson's wrists, glad to see they were unmarked, thanks to the cuffs' leather linings.

He took his time cleaning Coulson up, slowly and gently removing the traces of sex, a little reluctant to see them go. Coulson moved easily where Clint put him, his body lax, eyes closed and his face soft with pleasure. It was a far cry from the grim determination he'd worn when Clint had arrived, and Clint reveled in the difference.

He tossed the rag across the room and onto the bathroom floor, and sat on the edge of the bed. Giving into the urge to skate his fingers over Coulson's flushed skin, he tenderly stroked the flesh he'd earlier gripped hard enough to bruise. He watched as Coulson smiled, a contented, lazy, catlike thing, basking in the gentle touches, finally opening his eyes to look up at Clint through his dark lashes. Clint smiled down at him, and Coulson lifted his chin, sweetly and wordlessly requesting a kiss. Clint was more than happy to oblige.

Coulson essentially melted into the kiss, body gently arching into Clint's touch. Clint stretched out, curling close over Coulson, bracing himself on one elbow as he cradled the curve of Coulson's jaw. He deepened the kiss when Coulson hummed happily into his mouth. They settled in to sated, lazy kissing, Clint sinking deeper into Coulson, his weight pressed down into Coulson's welcoming hold, and they might have stayed that way for hours if Coulson hadn't coughed and pulled away to clear his throat. 

Clint realized belatedly that his throat was pretty dry, too. Not surprising, really, given the workout they'd just had.

"Hey, you need something to drink to rehydrate," he said as he rolled to his feet. "Water from the tap or bottles?"

"Side door of the fridge," Coulson answered. His voice was soft and raspy, his eyes half-lidded, and it was clear he was still gently riding a wave of endorphins. He settled deep into the blankets, languidly watching Clint.

Clint nodded and stretched, feeling the pleasant pull of well-used muscles, and left the room, walking quietly to the kitchen.

He took his time, eyeing the contents of Coulson's refrigerator. Coulson was sure to wake hungry, and Clint wanted to make sure there was something quick and easy for him to eat. He hoped he might still be here to share it with Coulson, but if the man needed some alone time, Clint could clear out.

His chest ached a little at the thought. Clint loved the cuddling and aftercare that came after a scene like this, taking care of his partner and watching them come back to themselves, bit-by-bit, sated and hopefully calmer and relaxed, but he was aware that not everyone felt that way.

Clint realized he was stalling a little in the hopes that Coulson might fall asleep if Clint took long enough. If he did, Clint could slip under the covers beside him for a little cuddling. He sighed.

Grabbing two bottles of water, he quickly chugged down half of one. Leaving it on the table next to his wallet and keys, and flipping the other one in his hand, he slipped back down the hallway toward the bedroom.

He came into the room to find Coulson sitting up on the side of the bed, feet flat on the floor, phone in his hand. "Hey," he said, holding the bottle of water out toward him. "I expected to find you asleep…"

Coulson was staring at him, eyes wide and unblinking. His back was ramrod straight, every ounce of lazy relaxation gone as if it had never been there. Something looked wrong in Clint's peripheral vision, and he glanced over at the bedside table. His gun was missing. His heartbeat picked up, body instinctively shifting into fight readiness.

"Coulson? What's up?"

"You're Clint Barton," Coulson said quietly, not a question but a statement, and he was trying for a steady, unbothered tone of voice, but Clint could hear the tremor in it. He frowned, alarmed. He hadn't restricted Coulson's breath to the point of loss of consciousness -- nothing they'd done should have led to any kind of short term memory loss.

"Yeah," he said, confused. "Was that in question?"

"I just…" Coulson looked lost, his face crumpling for an instant before he fought for control. "You weren't who I was expecting."

_Then who the fuck were you expecting?_ Clint thought, reeling, but he didn't have time to panic, because Coulson was trembling, his breathing speeding up.

"Whatever's going on," he said, fighting to stay calm, for Coulson's sake, "You need to be careful."

He sat beside Coulson, offering the bottle of water once more. "Here, drink this and let's get you under the covers. With as strong a release as you had, it would be easy to drop."

Coulson pulled away, shaking his head and shoving the bottle of water away. "I'm supposed to be your new handler, dammit. This is tantamount to harassment. You show up, and I talk you into sex? Good god, I've made a right royal mess of things."

Coulson's voice and his hands were shaking, and his eyes were bright with emotion.

"Coulson -- Phil." Clint took Coulson's cheeks in his hands, gently guiding his chin up so Coulson could see the truth in Clint's eyes. "I needed this as much as you did; I've been shoving that part of me down for far too long. Best thing you could have done for me; I was on a razor's edge after Chou's stupidity."

Coulson fought to look away, but Clint held his face steady. "And it was damn good consensual sex. Really good. Like, I want to cuddle up with you and sleep the rest of the night so I can wake up feeling even better in the morning good."

He smiled at Coulson, trying to make it reassuring, but Coulson was trembling, his head shaking helplessly.

"Jesus Christ, Clint," he murmured, and Clint could see him teetering. If Clint didn't fix this, Coulson could be in for a long, bad drop. "I…"

Clint went with his instincts, leaning in to capture Coulson's lips in a firm kiss, stopping his words. Coulson melted into the kiss, hands clutching at Clint's sides, tiny whines coming from deep in his throat.

Clint gentled the kiss, but kept it going, trying to radiate strength and calm when his mind was whirling. Coulson clearly hadn't been expecting him, despite what Fury had said, but he had been expecting _someone_. He thought of the way Coulson had met him at the door, his list of demands ready. He'd obviously set up some kind of anonymous hook-up, and Clint had wandered right into his plans.

Coulson broke the kiss, panting, resting his head in the crook of Clint's neck. Clint took the opportunity to slip his gun out from under Coulson's leg and set it and Coulson's phone back on the nightstand before settling Coulson under the covers. Clint climbed in after him, running a gentle hand over Coulson's hair and then gathering him into his arms. Coulson still looked tense, but no longer terrifyingly fragile.

"It doesn't matter how we ended up like this," Clint said softly. It wasn't true -- it _did_ matter, and they definitely had a lot to talk about in the morning -- but Fury had sent him to Coulson because he thought they'd be good together, and this night had shown Clint that they were _amazing_ together. He'd be damned if he'd give up the chance to find out how they worked in the field together without a hell of a fight. "I want to be here."

He suddenly remembered that first glimpse of Phil's cock, and his own cock gave a valiant twitch. "Maybe next time you can fuck me into the mattress when I need it."

With a sigh, Coulson relaxed in his arms, clearly working to push his negative thoughts away. He cuddled closer, his words muffled in Clint's neck. "Sometimes I like to be on top," he said. "But I should warn you. When I am, I'm in total charge. No arguing, no back talking, no sass."

Clint couldn't wait to see that, and to see what Coulson would do when Clint inevitably disobeyed. "Sounds like a plan, sir."

**END**


End file.
